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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24401773">Prussian Blue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyFoLaVe/pseuds/SyFoLaVe'>SyFoLaVe</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blasphemy, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, POV John Marston, PTSD, Past Child Abuse, Past Sexual Abuse, Self-Harm, Stalking, Vomiting, threats of suicide</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 04:20:07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,608</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24401773</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/SyFoLaVe/pseuds/SyFoLaVe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>John is frantically in love with you, and you and the gang are both screwed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>John Marston/Gross English grammar, John Marston/Reader, John Marston/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Hot Metal</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p>“Thank God, you’re alive!” Your hands on the gloves are cold and damp with snow. You soon take them off and help the heavy body into the building. From the horse to the cot. Snowflakes no longer fall on the head. The steely wind is blocked by the walls. Breath comes out from your mouth. Each pain on each wound.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The night ends with a prayer that puts hands together and a fire in a fireplace that’s on the verge of being put out. The morning starts with a new bandage replacing the bloody one and a tepid but still hot coffee. There's a blizzard outside, and the hands with gloves off are warm now. There’s no big deal. But the air is something you’d want to take a piece of, it’s all about being alone together with someone you care for.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If you live in Grizzlies, where carnivores and gigantic plants covered in snow hold your feet, a dagger was something you'd want to always carry. Not too long or too short, freshly sharpened. It was an effective tool to get rid of wolves rushing to eat you, to tear up your skin and devour the still-warm guts inside of it, or to carve even bigger scars in your failed life. It prevented the claws of those beasts from making bloody mayhem, but the uncomfortable fact is that they'd succeeded in leaving scars anyhow. At least on the outside.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The blood-stained wounds still feel hot as if they'd been burned by something. It feels as if someone had cut off the flesh with a knife heated by hellfire. The gruesome wounds start from the right jaw and stretch to the middle of the cheek, and are also on the bridge of the nose and lips. Would that be all? The left cheek is horribly bruised by the fall from the cliff. Stuck in an abandoned house that's barely holding itself together, and looking into the mirror, a voice hovers over the head saying it was futile to survive and everything is a mistake. The world is freezing, with the whole earth covered with snow, and the cot is unbelievably stiff. It's truly a wonderful sentiment that can only be experienced in west Grizzlies.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>No, seriously, there are too many useless thoughts, whether it’s part of past memories or a complaint about a piece of furniture. The craving for a cigarette grows stronger as the brain cells scream and cry to prevent my head from falling into hysteria. But there's no cigarette, no one to bum it off, and this cot seems to never let you go once you lie down. All kinds of things are drawn like a picture, like the flash of a camera that explodes when a photographer takes a picture, on the gray wooden ceiling, beyond the red bandage. There's a word for this that starts with ‘phantas’ or something, but my brain had already forgotten it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Everything feels too strange to be real. What's really strange is that even in the mess that's overflowing with violence and abuse, I can never recall what happened when I was a little kid. Are they better not to remember? Mommy’s face and voice, nothing ever comes to mind. But the memory of my real father is still there. It always remains there even in a deep sleep because he’s got that memory all over my fucking skull. Sometimes a beer bottle, sometimes a bare fist, and sometimes a belt hit me in the neck, right between the chest, above the waist. What was all that for? The skin under the shirt was covered with red and blue lines and they soon turned into bruises, now black and blue. What a pity if it'd really happened to me. But it didn’t happen, at least to me.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>What really happened to me is that my horse threw me off because of the wolves. On the way to find food and stuff to bring to the people, those beasts surrounded us, and the horse couldn’t put up with whatever it was feeling. So it ran away, but it was the one they choose as their prey. It gave me time to hide. The wolves came back, but anyway. They caught it, cut off its breath, tore its stomach apart, and the guts poured out. That’s the reason why I'm lying here. See, the real memory makes everything go on smoothly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Someone’s belt touching my teeth is one of the made-up memories. He reeked of alcohol, stuffed the belt to my mouth, and pinned me down. It’s something too awful to remember, so it didn’t happen at all. The nauseating aftertaste now begins to grow, but it’s understandable, imagining all this is a hard job. Even if these really happened, it would’ve been to others. All the muscles, the muscles on my brain seems to be convulsing, the throat feels like it's clogged by something sticky. Nothing ever happened, right?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But no. Everything happened. Denying is pathetic. It’s like, denying memories of knowing they already existed is the same as feeling safe and sound while being raped. Nothing exaggerated, just rigid, sickening fact. But still, can anyone give me a chance to escape just once?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Then what comes after blues is resent. As all the memories and feelings are unforgivably hideous, every time those come back, every part of me gets numb in an unusual way, clutching the heart in a vice grip. Getting carried away by hatred, the need to beat and torture and smash and wipe out everyone who appears in the head. I didn’t do anything wrong.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You alright, John?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It's a strange, not hearing any footsteps. You walk over here, kneel down, and stares at me with a worried look. There's snow on the cloth that covers your hair, and so is your coat. You got a flush on your cheeks but it’s hardly noticeable.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You were panting...and breathing, and...Are you all alright?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The breathing seems to have happened again. It's something I never want to show anyone, but you witnessed it. It's embarrassing, but every time this happens, the desire to destroy someone that rises from the bottom of the throat really can't be helped. That's the truth, the ‘bleak’ truth. There's no denying that this could’ve changed a bit if I’d grown up less beaten. But, anyway…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah? Yeah, I’m alright…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Then you put your hand on my forehead as if you're trying to make sure I don’t have a fever, and it feels weird. The desire to lie still and the urge to bite the helping hand comes to mind at the same time, which is inexcusably odd. It's wise to lie still here and not do anything stupid.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Dutch said we’re leaving this place soon. He wanted me to check on you, John.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m fine, okay? Just had a...nightmare, that’s all.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It's a forced reminder of the shit that actually happened rather than a nightmare, but I don't bother to say it. Because you don’t need to hear that crap.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Alright, then I’ll go tell Dutch you’re ready.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You take your hand off my forehead, raise yourself, slightly lifts under the bandage, and checks the wounds. The handkerchief brushes past them, and it tickles a little. That small favor is the only thing worth concentrating on, honestly. And you don’t forget to leave a friendly remark. “I hope these heal soon.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I then expect a kiss, but you don't and get up. So, unfortunately, it seems like the delusion is in place again. The thing which was thought to be gotten better than before, but maybe it wasn't, and maybe it got worse. But having a bit of delusional thought isn't a bad thing, in my opinion. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The afterimage - if that’s what you call it - of that ceiling still lingerers before the eyes when Pearson and others come. They lift me up and loads me on the back of the carriage, and my thighs feel as if they're breaking. They aren't, fortunately. Or maybe they actually are and it feels like they aren't, thanks to you. The carriage rumbles as it goes along the winding road, and it's horribly painful, but it's endurable, looking at the ground gradually turning green and your contemplating face. You're putting your hand on my shoulder, and I'm trying to say something, but you stop me, saying I need to rest. The road to the new camp feels long, and actually it is. Even though the carriage enters the green area, there's still a long way to go, and observing you is my favorite thing to do meantime. We arrive at the new place in the hour when the sun beat us down just above our heads, making the grass almost golden. You get off the carriage and get ready to set up camp, while I'm still in the carriage. It's boring, but anything is fine as long as you're in my sight.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It's just indescribable, getting out of the wooden floor of the carriage and finally laying my back on a soft bed. The tent is basking in the sun, and most importantly, you're next to me. The spot smells of spring. Being overly positive is no good thing, but something nice is about to happen. What can possibly go wrong?</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. All of Them Guts</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>What a lovely day.</p><p></p><div class="">
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The stitched wounds are slightly itchy, there’s a week smell of antiseptic and cocaine on the cheeks and it’s certainly not pleasant. But it's good that we're no longer in a snow-covered abandoned mining town, but in a field that smells like trees and flowers everywhere, and that's important for now. The air here will graze by the face a few times and the smell will be unnoticeable.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It’s not like me to think this nicely and it’s probably because of you. Hosea or Dutch once said that you can be happy just thinking about someone you love or just feeling their presence. Thought it was useless, childish - and it still does. But for now, I must admit that the proverb hits different. </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The spurs once had been stained by all kinds of dirt, become quite clean as the old handkerchief brushes past against them. The back of the trousers are worn out, as they’re a bit longer than the legs and get chafed by the ground constantly, and it seems like a new one is going to be needed soon. If only there’s time.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“John?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Have you been standing there waiting for me to notice you, or have you just come? Greeting pops out of the mouth, and it gets me wondering if my voice sounded weird or strange, even though it was a very short word. There's one thing they didn’t say, and it’s the fact that ‘love’ makes people stupid.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey. You feeling alright? Do the stitches hurt or something?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You turn my face around and check the stitches a little too carefully. The fingers are softer than I thought. Your lips are slightly opened, the gaze is fixed on my face. You’re wearing my favorite shirt.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hm?” you ask back, I shake my head.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>My vision fully captures your delicate eyelashes and even the tip of your nose and lips. My eyelids blink like they’re having a seizure.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Good. They’ll heal in no time.” your hand leaves my face, my skin.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There's part of me wondering what your favorite cigarette might be. And what your favorite food might be. Wondering about your hobbies and dreams and the skin underneath your clothes and your feelings about me. Almighty. You smile and straightens your back, get out of the tent.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If anyone would drown me with kindness, it would be you. It has to be you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p>People have to work. Whether the sun sets, the sun rises, for yourself or for others, sick or disabled, you have to work by moving your body. There's no one anywhere to work for your lazy ass. And a camp full of outlaws also comes under that rule. Even if you were attacked by a pack of wolves and had been in bed for weeks, bleeding profusely, you go out and earn money, contribute something to the camp. Especially if you'd been robbed to the soul by the good old protect and serve, fled to the end of the world to avoid them, and barely succeeded in coming down to the east. You’ll be the one to rebuild the collapsed tower.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Now, the train. No one wouldn't hesitate to rob a train full of rich folks. No people wouldn't hesitate to see the limbs of rich folks carrying fifty dollars and gold bars and platinum watches in their pockets getting mangled, to be exact. If you're the bottom feeder, living on the skid row, you can hate everyone on top of you! Everyone gags at us. If I were the only one doing the job, every folk would never make out of that train alive and the compartment would get caught up in flame, but unfortunately, robbing the train isn’t so simple to do it alone. So the desire should be kept deep inside the mind. It's ironic that a mask is needed to commit a shameless crime. No pun intended. Anyway, it would be nice to have that beautiful bundle of money in our hands. So I’d shut up and do the work while trying the best to un-murder people.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s an oil wagon in the distance. A large oil tank is attached to the back of the wagon and it’s being watched by rugged-looking men with rifles. That would stop the train without having to set up a deathtrap. And my work is done here. I'll let people like Morgan or Smith know about the wagon and get it on their own.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>On the way back to camp, there’s a strange uneasiness. The jittery hunch. The wind seems to stop blowing and the ground seems to vibrate, but nothing is actually happening.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Flash from the past, crippling memories, to the bones. I try to concentrate, but to concentrate is to empty the head completely. As the heated brain calms down, silence comes, and that silence is usually… And instead, you fill your head with those stupid, unremitting memories that make your hair stand on end. <em>Leave them in the past. It's all happening in your head. Don't cry. Don't get hurt. Don't go crazy.</em> But all this doesn't help at all. Not at all. It's as if they're seeping into the bones, smirking at me to their fullest and taking over the organs one by one. <em>She died because of you, huh?</em> Excessively wide fields and dense plants swaying in the wind are silent enough to drive you mad. <em>My mother─</em> Old Boy stops, and the hands on the reins quiver. Everything makes me want to throw up. <em>No wonder you’re losing your mind, you’re being miserable.</em> Sprawled on the ground. Twisting my body. Violently. What am I to do now?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I desperately think about you. Cleaning my wounds, touching my cheeks, a moist breath touching the bridge of my nose. Because it's a soundless time, hard time, it makes me want to squeeze myself, stick a knife in the stomach, cut out the skin, and scrape all the organs out, and you’re the one to pull me out of this mess. Silence makes you deafen. That's how you struggle in the pit without even knowing what's going on outside your head. <em>They’ll heal in no time.</em> Your lips touch my forehead. <em>You’ll heal in no time. </em>Time goes by as I completely ignore my existence to think about you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>It stings. The sky is blue as if it’s laughing at me. Because I won’t be clear as that sky for the rest of my life. Wildflowers creep on the back. Eyes are covered with sweat or tears. That rotten aftertaste hanging in the throat won't easily go away. But I can’t throw up. Literally stuck between the dream and the reality.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The flowers and the grass under the knees, those grabbed by my hands feels delicate. It’s spring. The boots trample on the soil. Colors of the world return to their places when I blink my stiff eyes a few times. <em>You’ll heal in no time.</em> You said it to me.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You’re a solid diamond.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>My eyes chase after your figure - for days and days, but there’s no actual courage to make a decent conversation. Observing you, your every moves becomes an off-hour hobby, so the brain can storage everything about my...beloved. Your name rolls on my tongue. The tender words and the face were vivid even in that gigantic clusterfuck. And thought I’d return the favor for keeping me sane. That includes leaving small gifts of flowers and chocolate in your caravan when you’re not looking. I learn quite a lot about you by doing that a few times. Even about the trivial little traits that you don't even know about yourself. But the thirst for you still remains.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I can't help but wander around your caravan at night. It's just some hobby born out of desperation. No one watches your caravan, of course, and people aren't free enough to care about a man just passing by. Candies and chocolates, those are what’s going to be left on your place today. And there’s a shirt you seem to have taken off for a while, among those messy worn clothes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Stealing someone’s shit is a bad thing. Everyone knows. But there’s no one around. Everyone is busy doing their own work, and you’re nowhere to be seen. You might come back and notice that the shirt is gone... but it's something too special to just leave it behind. It’s wrong, but I’ll do it anyway. I’m shameless and that much is certain. That's how my own treasure box fills up. After facing you with a calm expression, after taking a deep breath of your scent - I can imagine everything.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Dawn here is usually cold, but it's unusually hot today. Don’t know if the thoughts inside my head are heating me up, the whole tent, or if it’s all in my mind. The root of the hair and the back are getting wet with sweat. The vision is oily and the eyes feel dizzy. Feeling all this ordeal hitting my head, it seems like I and the memories are inseparable.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s no need to lie anymore. Everything feels rotten and numb.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Have you ever cursed at your mom for not giving you pocket money? Have you ever cursed that your dad wouldn't buy you anything delicious? I've been beaten up and cried.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The blurred vision acts as a warning. It’s to warn you to wake up before facing a terrible death in your head, whoever is trapped. Everything is unpleasant and painful after waking up, even though if you’re aware that it’s just bad memories. Everything about them is vividly drawn on the canvas. No matter how fine you try to pretend, you can't get rid of the feeling that someone is forcibly scraping off the tender flesh behind your throat. A whiskey does a little bit of a relief.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your shirt feels just like you, soft and smooth. It smells like you, it smells like the body I’d be kissing, if only you’re here. I lie down like that holding your shirt like a child who’s afraid to sleep alone, hoping to fall asleep. For a long several minutes.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>But it doesn’t happen. If anything, really… My mind gets gradually sharper. Guess it's time to thank my body for letting me know that human anatomy can work like this. You know, like a 14-year-old boy getting a little too excited thinking about a girl he likes, or a woman he saw in a magazine. My brain tries to somehow come up with other thoughts to quickly shake off the heaviness that weighs down on the body, but that only adds more filthiness to this cauldron of mess. <em>You miserable piece of shit─</em> Or my body is doing this to release tension. If it's really like that, there's another way. The flaps of the tent shut down.</p>
  <p> </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The razor blade that touches the skinny part of the stomach feels sensitive. It would be nice if it’s sharp enough to cut the skin neatly. If you want to avoid people prying about the wounds, you have to do it where they can't see it. People just don’t get it. But I get them, this is what I am. The truth what’s way too bleak that it’s even hilarious is that the poor fathers begged for a wolf, but they raised a fucking degenerate instead.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There’s nothing straightforward than tearing your skin apart with something sharp. The feeling of coming and going between pain and something nice. Whether it's the purely impure thoughts about you or, shit, this self-degradation thing, it's a crime just to think about it all.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>I just want you to adore me and know that I adore you. And that there’s no reason to cut myself if it isn’t about you. It's my favorite thing to bring you a small gift every day, and to watch you from far away. Following you around, getting my hands on your stuff. Can a razor reach the inside? Human guts won’t be much different from the horse’s, or pig’s, any animals’. It won’t be so pretty but it’s fine unless you can acknowledge me. All I want to do is rub the blood from my body against your skin and share everything in our veins. There’s nothing to hide. I want you to think about me.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Wherever you are.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Logic exists to think. It’s used by your brain to find the best way in any situation, it’s a human ability to help you avoid making stupid mistakes. It’s the ability to distinguish humans from other animals. It's a good thing to have. But for today, at least for today, the voices in my head get their chance to jabber. <em>Look, John. Forget about the logic, don't even think about it. Don't think about anything. You may be bit of a miserable and broken bastard inside, but what would it matter if you can embellish yourself?</em> <em>They appreciate all the little gifts you give them, and they want more than that. They're secretly fond of you, they just don't show it off.</em> <em>Lovely, ain't it?</em> </p>
  <p>Yeah. Maybe you're just plain shy, maybe you need someone to stay beside you, maybe you too are yearning for someone, something, maybe, yeah, maybe…</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You want me too, maybe.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Soon the mind goes completely blank, the fabric in front of me gets splashed with a flashy spark that seems like it can be only explained by the people of the future, and I dig my spurs to the ground to keep the legs from shaking. That’s how the dawn ends. The air that surrounds not only me but all the space I occupy is humid, blunt, and hungry - had me swallow hard. It’s enough to wipe out all the memories that had plagued me until a few minutes ago, to make me fully understand the meaning of love, not just in my head but in all the nightmares. We’re in love. Fuck everyone else.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The dark red blood seeps through the wrinkles of the fingers. The underside of the razor is stained with blood. There were flowers, candies, and chocolates, and they’re nothing compared to this, wet with unshared devotion. You’re asleep, having no idea who’s next to you. It might be better because this is some kind of surprise present. We’re meant to be, you should be knowing that.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Would a kiss on the forehead wake you up?</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Table Top</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It's sunny outside. The lawn seen over the open window is very green, with dew on each of its leaves. Thousands of dust can be seen in the air each time the curtains are blown in the wind. The house and room are all papered in white. White bricks, white windows, white beds, all white. Right in front of the window there’s a bed that looks overly neat, and you're sitting on its edge, with your wounded knee exposed. The skin is chafed with wet blood on it, and the knee is stained red. You and the strange atmosphere of the room make one want to succumb to it and kneel on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Get down, John. Lick me here.” or you demanded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Hands and knees are being swept to the floor, and the body heads toward you like a dog on a leash moves forward in the hand of its owner. The bloody wound reeks of something sanguinary. If someone else is in front of you, they would frown and turn their head away in disgust. But it's not just 'someone else' who's kneeling in front of you. They’d be easy to replace and unable to give you blind love.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You just need to cross the line. Things that used to be disgusting become fascinating after that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The metallic taste floods the mouth as the tongue reaches the wound, sweeping the blood away. It certainly doesn’t taste good; sour-tasting, blastedly unappetizing, and every time the taste is passed through the wet tongue into the brain, it makes the fingers, the muscles on the body tense up. But it’s not that it doesn’t feel nice. There’s no reason to be overly grossed out if this can heal your wound. Just a euphemism for new loyalty, that is all. Take the time to digest the taste, to digest the flavor. Sickening thoughts, twisted addictions, juvenile desires, but there’s no need to feel like shit if they’re the ones that you want ─</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The world, and the tent, are still dim. Considering that there should be time to deal with the heaviness, it’s fortunate that a complete morning has yet to come. Still too dreary, still too dark. That subtle scent of daybreak comes into the lungs every time I breathe in. The taste of blood still lingers in the mouth. That’s one weird dream. It feels like the sticky blood from your wound is tangled to my tongue and teeth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sun begins to rise in the east and heats everyone's tents with sunshine. People wake up one by one and start to work with the tasks they have to complete today. I’m one of them. But what's different from them is that I'm just pretending to work. Didn’t forget to drink coffee before all of that.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey.” hope you don’t recognize my horse voice. It’s my first time opening the mouth today.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hi, John. How are the scars?” you come closer, examining the scars. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Yeah. But how about you ask about me instead of them scars?</span>
  </em>
  
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Fine.” And now I get all grumpy. Just because you aren’t stroking my cheek and asking me about the day.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But at least you can just focus on me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Good morning.” it’s Arthur to greet you. Pouring the coffee into the cup, right between you and me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Hey, Arthur! You sleep well last night? I swear I’m gonna die sleeping on the floor someday. You’re lucky you got a cot.” but you didn’t ask me. Where is that small talk? Are scars the only thing are you curious about? Am I made of scars? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“What, you gonna steal it?” Arthur chuckles. Your conversation goes well without me.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Without me. Is there anything more miserable than sitting lonely in a tent, realizing that no one actually wants you? The sound of fixing carriages, feeding chickens, and chopping firewood are heard through the fabrics. They are all great examples of how the world goes well without me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The bandana strangles the lower part of the neck. This won't be enough to die, but that's not the goal anyway. Eyes are half-closed, and vertigo pushes in, blood keeps circulating, and the air squeezes my face. Why can’t you get it? It can’t be that hard for you to just concentrate on me.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Tears well up in the eyes. Don’t know if I’m crying because of the pathetic blues or if it’s just a natural reaction from the body. Then the grip on the hands weaken, the bandana is loosened a bit. But after a little lull, everything repeats itself again. Adam’s apple vibrates whenever I swallow. Breath shakes. This goes on until I give up and put everything down, adjusting my strength so that I don't die by mistake. By the time it’s over, my body is drenched with sweat and the neck is red with bandana mark. Thinking about you stroking my cheek, your lips on mine, and you asking in a low voice all those things you don't know about me and getting high with those illusions, I pant heavily. Or I’ll suffocate to death.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Time goes on. It keeps going on without you knowing my self-destruction.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>It's not Arthur that's next to you now. One of the girls, Mary-Beth. Mary-Beth is sitting on a carpeted floor and you're talking to her in a chair next to her. A weak laugh breaks out between sentences. A thick novel goes back and forth between your hands and hers. You pretend you don’t see me even though I'm sitting in front of you. The dogtooth feel particularly sharp. As if they were going to rip the skin apart of innocent people, or hurt the tender flesh inside my mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Smoking sunset. Just above the green hill. ...Surely resentment destroys the fool, and jealousy kills the simple, Job 5:2. Or maybe they said that in a similar way. God once said it but it can be ignored right now. They can't, they don’t love you like I do and they don’t know the things I know. We can have each other completely where people don't see, we can find out what love is without being interrupted by other people's eyes. And they’re the sights you’ll lose when you share your </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> devotion.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Please.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>After all, it's ironic that a place where I can be sane and not sane at the same time is my tent, on the bed. And it’s even more ironic that even if you try to get out of this hellish habit, you always end up back in place… Those kinds of thoughts come to mind looking at the razor. Again. Overly familiar pain comes every time the small razor draws a line on the skin. The sensation itself feels dull, however. The box next to the bedside still contains the leftover chocolates that originally should be delivered to you. Opening the package, the chocolate has melted slightly and the edges of it are squashed a bit. This was going to be left by your side tonight. Guess this will go into my stomach. I'm not mad, I have a serious sweet tooth. And they say sweets help you get out of your depression.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The razor is pressed too hard on the skin, it digs into the finger and draws blood. I wait until the blood seeps between the fingerprint, until the chocolate melts down, and they all make quite a mess. My blood will taste the same as yours, just like in that dream, naturally. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I ended up doing this. Who do you think I’m hurting myself for?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>But you’re still adorable. That one sentence keeps me from blowing up even though you give yourself up to others and laugh with them. You wouldn't like seeing someone explode in front of your eyes.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>One day when the scar is no longer red and itchy, you put me in my bed. You wipe my cheek with a wet handkerchief and start to take out the stitches one by one. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Tell me if it hurts, okay?” how kind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It doesn’t hurt. The stitches move and pull my skin slightly, but it doesn’t hurt. Your gaze is fixed on me, my scars to be exact, and your breath touches my face. That’s warm. That little breath and focused eyes, hand resting on my shoulder. And mine on your elbow. The sweet taste in my mouth won't go away. Don't know if the taste of the chocolate I ate a few days ago is coming back up my throat or if your scent is turning into a kind of flavor in the mouth.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Your hand moves smoothly. And it becomes softer and smoother every time you hear me gritting the teeth or breathing in, though you can pay no attention to me and do as you please just like every other people. So not crass. So loving. So tell me, are you like this to others?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“How you feeling these days? I can’t go into it, but something strange is happening. Really weird.” you open your mouth. Your gaze is still fixed to my scars, and your fingers move busily.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Anyway…how you feeling since that incident? You must’ve been really surprised. It must’ve hurt a lot, too.” maybe you wanted to be with me personally. Just the two of us without the eyes of others. It’s alright, that’s understandable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“It’s...I’m...fine.” it's almost impossible to form a proper sentence when you’re right under my nose. Wish it didn’t sound so awkward.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s good to hear! I’ve seen a lot of folks struggling after that kinda thing happened. Glad you’re doing fine.” lovely words, then you pull out the last stitch.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I’ll be fine. I’m more than fine with you. With you, I am. Are you planning to melt me in your words? Is it bad to imagine all the future with you at this moment?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“That’s all done, John. They’re healing pretty quick.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>You stroke the scars with a finger and then pull yourself away from me. Cold air pushes in, my hand leaves your arm. Why do I feel like we just shared a breathless kiss, even though I know it’s only a fantasy and a hazy dream? But my hand wouldn’t have left your arm if it were real.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Are you hot? Your face is a little red.”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It’s hot inside the head, scorchingly hot. Back of your hand touching my cheek feels refreshing. Cold. Icy almost. And whenever your fingers touch, something that is restrained seems to be about to break through the shell.</span>
</p>
<hr/>
<p>
  <span>It’s named John.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The fallen woman and the drunk Scottish criminal gave me that name. One of the twelve apostles of Jesus, a biblical shithead who wrote the Book of Revelation and The Gospel. A John was born with blue blood, and after the clergy had blessed him, he praised Jesus in the church, and a John was thrown out on the street to loathe the world and was deprived of what he had and what he didn’t have in the first place. Seen everywhere and nowhere, a regular John. In that damn stolid and worn-out name I was erased, raped, and beheaded.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Life stained with filth, life covered with thorns, revolting life, a gift full of surprise they choose to give to their son.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Yeah.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>My name in your voice is different from anything else. You came to me by the time this hill thawed, got me out of the pit, gave me a reason to live, and you’re gradually relieving me of hatred. Water instead of filth, branches instead of thorns. And this isn’t an infatuation. I'm ready to turn the whole world into an enemy for you. Even if you don't want it. Think about the future we’d have! Getting out of the outlaw camp and the hassle of it, living a small everyday life in a sunny little cottage. Without people watching. You know the song written by some British songwriter, Bicycle Built For Two? The one about getting married on a tandem? We could be like that, too, and we should be together. Together.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Get it?</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>The church door opens with a heavy sound. It looks small on the outside and isn’t very big on the inside. The chandelier is brightly lit, and there is a long aisle with a red carpet next to the seven or so pews, the altar is covered with velvet cloth of the same color as the carpet. There's something too clean about the air, the scent, and so is everyone sitting here and the pastor's clothes. And they’re all looking at me with astonished looks on their faces. The service was just going on.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>This church looks like a model house toy that rich kids play with. The softness of the carpet can be felt even under the shoes. Everyone’s eyes are fixed on me, my guns, my hair, as I saunter down the aisle. Nobody dares to speak.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>I take a sit on the front left pew. An old, shaggy man with a mustache sitting next to me narrows his eyes and moves slightly to the side. In this overly neat, overly faithful, overly hypocritical place, I’m almost like a plague. After the silence that seemed last forever, the pastor turns back to the altar and resumes the service.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Confession isn’t the purpose. Just here to show Jesus and his saints of everything falling apart, everything going downhill like you’re on a helter-skelter before I turn this tongue into a serpent, that’s all. The service continues. The gospel continues. Everyone chants Bible verses. There are words about hell and salvation, eternal love and church, original sin and the Virgin Mary. People go wild. For what?</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Brother?” </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A gentle-looking pastor is standing in front of me. People's eyes go back and forth between me and him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Do you know where heaven is?” he seems to ask everyone that question. Eyes are fixed on his smile. Corners of my mouth turn up at the edges, I straighten my back.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Yeah. I know the answer to that.” not a lie. “I know that, actually, heaven doesn’t exist.” His smile dies down. It isn’t intended, but it is quite cathartic to have shocked and destroyed for someone who’s religiously dazed by the wonderful jackass called God.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“We're gonna get ravished by them demons at the bottom of hell after we die. Really mean it. The whole bit." there's a moment of silence, and this mouth is still running. There’s once again that stupid look on their faces. If only God is here listening to all this crap, I would lean in and whisper </span>
  <em>
    <span>I despise you</span>
  </em>
  <span> to his hears.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“Enjoy your life, have a nice day. And thanks for asking, alright?”</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Out of the pews, out of the carpet, out of the church. Valentine's cold, smelly air welcomes my face.</span>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <span>Never thought about turning back. Still the same. The end justifies the means. Nothing matters after everything fall apart.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The wooden building, with its name written large in white paint, "Sheriff," looks restrained and at the same time violent. There’s a jail behind it. Now, if you have a clear goal, there is no reason not to act immorally. If there's something blocking the way, it’s natural to remove it, and all goals are incomparable.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The sheriff's eyes are on me. One is casually reading the newspaper with his legs on his desk, while several others play pretending to be working. There’s a small black sign on the desk that says "Sheriff Maloy."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“May I help you with something?” he asks, lowering the legs from the desk.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Taking a little time. Then the lips open, tongue moves, it touches the teeth and the roof of the mouth, making the sentence that was needed so far. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>“You fellers looking for a man named Van Der Linde?”</span>
</p>
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